


All Souls

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Halloween, Kidnapped John Watson, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27347707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: The place next to me, where he used to sleep, was cold. But in the still darkness, I could hear him breathing. Steady, dependable, in and out.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 124





	All Souls

I could not sleep. Every night I lay awake, and I would hear him next to me, breathing. But he was not there, of course.

Ten days had passed since my poor Watson was taken. I suspected the gang that had done it, but could not prove it. Lestrade had the gang members watched, hoping they would give themselves away.

For hours each day, I ran down every clue we had, sometimes two or three times. I visited every haunt, posing as disreputable characters, asking for information. I threatened, and I offered bribes, promised substantial rewards for information. I received no answers.

I was useless. After several sleepless nights, I was running on pure nervous energy and Lestrade sent me home to wait for word. Mrs Hudson brought me food which I did not eat. I lay in my bed, listening, my foolish heart still hopeful, even as my logical brain saw those hopes statistically diminish down to nothing.

He’d been on his way home one night after seeing a patient. This was a frequent occurrence; he was too kind-hearted to let his patients suffer, and invariably went out when he was summoned, even in the middle of the night, even if there was little he could do. I did worry about him walking alone at night, and said so. He reassured me, promised to carry his revolver. I know that he is a good man in a fight, and as a soldier, he always keeps an eye out for trouble. He had come to my rescue numerous times, and I knew he could handle himself against a few thugs. My fearless Watson.

And then he was gone, taken from me, with only a note to tell me what had happened. _We have your dog. Wait for word._

But that word never came.

The place next to me, where he used to sleep, was cold. But in the still darkness, I could hear him breathing. Steady, dependable, in and out.

Ten days.

I rose from my bed and splashed my face with water. In the kitchen, I found that Mrs Hudson had delivered my breakfast, just tea and toast, as I requested. I ate only because I needed my strength. As I poured tea into my cup, I heard the door downstairs slam and Lestrade’s tired feet climbing the stairs. Slow, reluctant steps. If he had good news, he would have flown up the stairs. 

"Holmes.” He looked exhausted, I thought, only marginally better than I felt.

“You have no news,” I said.

He sat down heavily and looked at me across the breakfast table. “We must face facts, Mr Holmes.”

“What facts? As far as I can see, we have no facts.”

“It’s been ten days. At this point, we can hardly hope to find him—“

I hissed at him. “Don’t say it! I will not believe he is dead. He’s alive, and we must find him.”

“There is no evidence that they took him out of London,” he said. “And no one here knows anything. We’ve tried all the usual haunts, questioned all the usual suspects, anyone who might have a grudge against you. The doctor is well known, and somebody should have talked by now. I don’t like to believe it either, Mr Holmes, but we can’t keep this up.”

“Today,” I said, “I will find you a clue.”

Fortified with tea and toast, I went out into the streets again. It was November now, and winter seemed determined to make us forget warmer days. The wind went through my coat, seeped up through the pavement into the soles of my boots. 

I spent hours following the worn paths, and venturing down new ones. I listened, and I talked. In spite of my efforts, I failed to find any clue, any sign of what had happened to him. Discouraged, I could not admit defeat. But I needed rest if I was to continue.

It was late; I crawled into my bed, hoping for a few hours. Sleep again eluded me. I closed my eyes, imagining Watson bound, beaten, starved, and I began to weep. I felt hopeless, powerless. I had tried everything and did not know what else to do.

And I heard him breathing.

My eyes closed, I kept my hands tucked into my body, lest I reach out for him. It was not real, but the illusion comforted me. Watson, sleeping solidly, his even exhalations, his dreaming mumbles and little snores.

_You must be alive. Please, don’t be—_

Another sound, a knocking at the door.

I jumped up, wrapping my dressing gown around me, and ran, barefoot, down the hall. For someone to call this late was either very good or very bad. I longed to know something, anything. At least knowing would mean the end of this horror.

The knock sounded again and I realised that it was the door to the flat, not the street entrance. Certain that it would be Mrs Hudson, I opened it.

Not a sound could I utter; I merely stared. On the other side of the threshold stood Watson. Here was the very thing I had hoped for, but never expected.

“Watson,” I said at last, and heard my own voice break.

He looked pale, and thinner even than he was at our first meeting, all those years ago. Whatever he had suffered had left other marks on him, as well. His face was wary, and this was what disconcerted me most. Watson had often been angry with me, and his honest face never hid that. I’d seen him frightened, grief-stricken, merry, agitated. But never this: blank.

“Holmes.” His voice was rough, barely a whisper. "Holmes.”

“Come in,” I said, reaching towards him. I could see that he was icy cold, water dripping off of him.

He pulled back, stepped away from me. _Don’t touch._

“Come inside, Watson,” I pleaded. “Come and sit by the fire. We must get you warm.”

I watched as he shuffled towards his chair like a dead man, his eyes glazed over and focused only on moving that short distance, putting one foot in front of the other. His limp was pronounced.

The clothes he was wearing were too thin for the season, and strange for a man of Watson’s tastes. He looked like a labourer, worn trousers with patched knees, a linen shirt, and a shapeless jacket. Not a labourer, I corrected myself. A _prisoner_. This was prison garb.

“You’re safe now,” I said. “Let me take care of you.”

I added more coal to the fire and stirred up the flames. There was a wool afghan on the sofa; I wrapped it around him. I had many questions, but all would have to wait until I was sure he was all right. He seemed like a man half-asleep, in another world, the way his eyes drifted around the room, as if to make sure he was actually here, finally home.

 _Tea, of course_. I filled the kettle and set it on the hob, lit the gas, and returned to the sitting room.

I wanted to kneel at his feet, hold his hands, reassure him that he was truly home, but the skittish look in his eyes made me restrain my impulse. I sat facing him, took up my pipe, and began filling it with tobacco. Anything to still my nervous hands.

“Would you like a smoke?” I offered. “There are cigarettes. Or cigars, if you’d prefer.”

He said nothing, but gazed at me. There was sadness in his eyes, but something else, too. He’d been through something terrible, and perhaps did not trust his senses to tell him he was safe now. I would be gentle with him.

But the people who did this must pay, and that could not be delayed for very long.

“Your captors, who were they?”

Watson didn’t speak. He stared down at his lap.

The kettle shrieked and I went to make the tea. Waiting for it to steep, I stood in the doorway of our small kitchen, looking at the back of Watson’s head. He did not move.

I came through with the tea and set it beside him. He had not moved. In spite of being as pale as ice, he did not shiver.

“Watson, you must let me call a doctor. You are ill, and possibly hurt.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “Hackney. Waters.”

“You were in Hackney?”

He nodded.

“It couldn’t have been the Waters gang. They’re all dead, except for the two who are still in prison.”

“Waters.”

I was nervous now, worried at his odd silence. “I’m sending round for the doctor.”

Rising from my chair, I intended to ring for Billy, who slept downstairs, and send him off to fetch Dr Wilcox.

Watson rose, too, and began moving towards the door. I say that he moved, but it did not seem as if his feet made any sound, or even touched the floor.

“Watson! Wait!” I cried, understanding at last. “Don’t leave me!”

He turned and regarded me with sorrow. Water dripped from his face, still pale, almost grey. His clothing was soaked, a puddle of water collecting under his feet.

“Please,” I begged him. “Come back to me. Don’t be—“ I reached out to take his hands, but could not catch them. An icy chill went through me. “Don’t be dead,” I sobbed.

The water was turning to mist. As it rose around him, he began to fade. Frantic now, I tried to lay hold of him, grappling in the mist, touching nothing. The mist lingered, like a crystalline sigh. I could hear him breathing, but he was gone.

It was then that I heard the church bells tolling. All Souls, November the second. The Commemoration of the Church Penitent, prayers for the souls of those in Purgatory.

I am not a religious man. I believe in science, not prayers.

I did pray, though, as I dressed and summoned a cab. Waiting by the door, I paced, muttering the only word my mouth could form: _please._ Mrs Hudson heard that I was up, heard the haste in my footsteps, and came out of her flat to see what had happened. I told her nothing, but put my arms around her and said I would be back later.

“Is it… the Doctor?” Her voice trembled, and I knew that she had guessed.

When I stood on Lestrade’s doorstep and told him that I knew where Watson was, he did not ask how. He knows that I do not believe in ghosts.

I do not know what I saw that night. My rational brain rebels at the obvious conclusion, that I was visited by a ghost.

But there might be a state between death and life where the souls of the departed can walk abroad. In that state, a soul might long for the comfort of the familiar and be drawn to those they have loved.

I have loved Watson for many years. We are not saintly men, but we try to be good men. He was in Purgatory now, and did not deserve that. I prayed. _Please, please._

I cannot explain how I knew where to find him, but what follows are the facts.

When we pulled him from the well, he was dripping wet, cold as ice, and wearing the clothing of a prisoner. I suppose the gang thought that when his bones were eventually found, in five years or fifty, his body would be unidentifiable, the clothing that remained giving no clue to his identity. It might be assumed that he was an escaped inmate from some prison.

I remembered the house in Hackney from the Waters case, three years earlier. It had an abandoned well out back, where they had stuffed the body of their hostage. In the raid, Watson shot one of the sons, Doyle Waters, who had grabbed me and put a gun to my head, threatening to kill me if they were not allowed to go free. Watson put a bullet through his forehead before he finished making his demand. Two others died escaping, and two went to prison.

I only later learned that a cousin, recently released from prison, had reorganised the gang and abducted Watson out of vengeance. He and his associates had quarrelled after taking him, and several left, saying they wanted nothing to do with murder. The two who remained panicked, and that was how Watson ended up in the well.

When I took his freezing body in my arms, laid my head on his chest and felt for his carotid artery, I wept. I could feel his pulse. I heard him breathing.

He has been in bed for many days now, feverish and shivering, but I have kept him warm, and now that he has opened his eyes, I spoon broth between his lips and give him hot tea. He smiles at me. I will not let him go.

I hear the mucous rattle in his chest. Dr Wilcox says that it was lucky we found him when we did. He’d been in the bottom of the well for two days, lying in stagnant water. He might have died of hypothermia if he’d been above ground, where the air was freezing. Underground, the temperature stays warmer. His inept captors, thinking him dead and wanting to hide his body, had kept him alive.

He was very close to death, but he will live. Soon, when he is feeling better, I will ask him, and he will have forgotten the days he spent in the well. He will remember waking up in his own bed, warm and safe.

And when I tell him how he was found, he will say that I saved him, that only I could have solved the case and brought him out of that well.

I will know this is not true, but I won’t correct him. I won’t yet tell him how he came to me and told me where he was. I simply followed the clues to get there.

Instead, I will say, “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have required rescue.”

He will smile up at me and say, “This is our life, my love. We find danger, we save one another.”

And years from now, when we are both old, I will still awaken at night, remembering how I almost lost him. When that happens, I will listen, and I will hear him draw breath, in and out.

**Author's Note:**

> In the Christian Church calendar, November 2 is celebrated as All Souls' Day, the final observance of Allhallowtide. On this day, we pray for the souls of the faithful departed.


End file.
